Alone in the Dark
by NoahNicholas
Summary: It had been months since Sherlock had left John at the Fall, and John was alone and slowly going insane.
1. Chapter 1

_A month has passed since Sherlock left. Since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St Bart's and I haven't stepped in there since. I just can't bare it, I don't want to go in there and see him working at his desk, hear him telling me to get his phone from his coat pocket. God, I miss the bastard.  
I haven't seen Molly around as much anymore, I don't know what's happened to her. Maybe she quit her job and moved away, I don't know. I should probably text her, get into contact with her somehow. Same with Greg, only I see him now and then. He pops round to make sure I'm okay, I have to tell him I am just so he leaves. I don't want to see anybody else but Mrs Hudson, and I really want to see Sherlock. I hope this is some kind of trick of his, that he hasn't really left me behind, on my own, alone in the dark.  
I miss the cases, running around London behind him, running down the dark alleys and losing him. I miss saving him from bad cabbies, from psychotic men and from himself when he put his life at risk just because he wanted to protect me.  
I don't know what to do with myself anymore._

John sighed as he typed into his blog, pressed save and then closed his laptop down. He put it to the side and stared at Sherlock's chair, imagining he was still there, still plucking the strings on his violin and staring through John into a distance that wasn't there. John pulled his legs up onto the chair and into his chest and held them close. He rested his head on his knees, wishing, hoping Sherlock would come back. His head pricked up slightly when he heard someone coming up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" He muttered and turned to the door to see it was Mrs Hudson, then sighed and returned himself to his previous position.

"No dear, it's not Sherlock. I know you miss him," She said, putting a plate of food down in front of John "But starving yourself isn't going to bring him back. You're a doctor, you know the health risks of doing this." She leaned down slightly and put her hands on John's shoulders, looking into his eyes "I am _always _here if you need to talk."

John looked at her, he saw affection in her eyes that he had always ignored, thinking it was just part of who she was as a person. "Thank you. I'm...really not hungry, I can't bring myself to eat without feeling sick." He sighed slightly and put his face into his legs and closed his eyes. "I just miss him Martha" He muttered, his voice shaking.

"I know you do dear, I miss him too," She said, now standing and walking over to the curtains, pulling them open "There, that's a little better" She said to herself and looked back over to John "Please try to eat dear, I'll come back to check on you later." She said, walking over to him, rubbing his shoulder and then going back downstairs.

John sighed and looked at the plate of food. He leaned over, put his feet on the floor and picked it up, staring down at it. Slowly, he started to eat. He hadn't eaten for nearly a week now and he wasn't sure how his body would respond to the sudden intake of food. After a while, he finished the food and sat in silence. He waited, waited for his stomach to turn and make him vomit, but it didn't happen. He got up and went into the kitchen to wash the plate when he recieved a text on his phone.

_I'm not dead, John -SH_

He growled slightly at the message, throwing his phone against the wall and breaking it, screaming as he did. The stress and sudden jerk of his body as he did this made his stomach cramp, causing him to grip the side and buckle over slightly. Mrs Hudson had ran upstairs as soon as she heard him scream and she was now looking at him.

"John, dear what's wrong?" She asked, rushing over to him and holding him up.

"Stomach...Hurts...going to be sick" He groaned, his eyes tightly shut, his teeth clenched together.

Mrs Hudson sighed a little before putting John's arm around her shoulder and hers around his waist and helped him into the bathroom. She stayed with him while he was sick, and cleaned him up afterwards "This is really getting to you, isn't it dear?" She asked as she wiped down his mouth and his chin, helping him to take his jumper off.

"I got a text," He muttered and lifted his arms up "From Sherlock's phone...But it can't have been him...Because he's dead and...and..." He stopped talking and sighed

"What did the text say? Are you sure it was his phone, because he did block his number quite a lot"

"The text said 'I'm not dead, John' and it had his initials at the end as well," He said, now standing up

"Go and get some rest dear, I'll phone Gregory and see if he'll come round to talk to you," She said, patting his back and taking him out of the bathroom, watching as he walked into Sherlock's room, sighing. "You should also phone your cousellor, see if you can book an appointment to see her. It'll do you some good"

He nodded "Thank you" he said, and closed the door behind him. He knew this wasn't his room, that it was Sherlock's, but he wanted to be in here, he wanted to be close to Sherlock again. He looked around, the cleanliness, the abandonment of the room made him slightly distressed. He walked over to Sherlock's bed, the cover still pushed to the end of the bed like it was on the day of the fall, the sheet still crumpled. He wiped his face, desperately trying to brush away the tears that were threatening to make an appearance. He laid on the bed, his skin against the cool sheets, the pillows that still smelled like the shampoo that Sherlock used. He pulled the cover over him, curling up and eventually falling asleep, crying as he did.

He slept for hours, only being awoken when Greg patted his arm. He rolled over and looked up, seeing Greg, frowning only slightly. "H-Hello...Why did you just wake me up?" He asked, yawning.

"I woke you up because you were crying...In your sleep" Greg replied

"Right...Sorry" John muttered, sitting up "Let me guess, you're here because Mrs Hudson called and you're worried"

Greg nodded "That's right. I'm also here because I want to see the message you got from Sherlock"

John swallowed slightly "Sh-She told you about that too? Gosh, Greg I'm sorry, I smashed my phone against the wall" He said, wiping his hand across his face

Greg sighed and helped John out of the bed, walking with him into the living room and sitting on the sofa, avoiding sitting on Sherlock's chair for John's sake. "It looks like you've done a little bit of cleaning to the flat"

"Yes, just a little. I don't really want to tidy, that'll mean moving on and I don't want to do that" He muttered and looked at Greg.

"I...Understand how you feel John, but you have to tidy, you can't live like this. Have you eaten today?"

"Y-yes...but I just brought it back up."

Greg and John spoke for many minutes before they both fell silent, staring at their surroundings. Greg couldn't handle being in the flat without Sherlock, constantly telling him to 'shut up' or dancing around when he had got a case, so he left. He left John, alone, again.


	2. Chapter 2

As Greg left, John wandered over to the drawer that had always had his pistol in. The thought had tempted him many times before, but, like this time, he had always shaken it off, telling himself that it wasn't worth it and it's not what Sherlock would want. He quickly slammed the drawer shut as Mrs Hudson came back up to speak to John and comfort him.

"Are you feeling any better than earlier, dear?" She asked, putting the tray of tea and biscuits down, sitting on the sofa and patting next to her for John to sit down too.

John nodded and sat next to her "Yes…I am, I guess," He sighed slightly "Greg didn't really help. He just told me that I had to clean up, eat and then left." He frowned, taking one of the cups of tea. He sighed and waited for Mrs Hudson to speak again, which took a few minutes as she was looking around, like she always did.

"I saw you looking through that drawer again" She spoke softly "Is there something of Sherlock's in there? I know you two weren't dating, but he seemed to have…Claimed you" She glanced over at him.

John sighed, he couldn't tell her the truth, but he couldn't lie to her either, knowing that if he told her that there was something in there, she'd ask to see it. "No…There isn't anything of Sherlock's in there…Just some of my belongings."

Martha nodded, and took some sips from her tea, looking around in despair, sighing softly. "Would you like me to help you tidy up? I mean, now that I'm not running around anymore, I have more spare time and since you left your job…" She looked at John and then stopped talking, seeing that she wasn't helping the situation entirely.

"Thanks, but no thanks." There was a small flicker of anger in John's tone. He didn't need to be reminded that he'd left his job, especially not after earlier's episode. His trigger finger was tapping against the ceramic, the thoughts, temptations, still running vividly in his mind. He knew he would probably need some help to get through tonight, but he was low on options. Greg, Anderson... His only two options, really. Since Sherlock had gone, Anderson had been more compassionate, more... Friendly, as it were, towards John. Probably trying to prove something. However, he felt it was unlikely that he would accept his request.

Evening rolled around, and John was doing the same as he was doing every night. Sitting in the living room, lights off, tv on, the dimness of the screen proving somewhat difficult to see, but, he had gotten used to it. The remote was in his hand, flicking through channel and channel of nonsense and non-stop drama. His trigger finger was still tapping, waiting, wanting to be used. Wanting to be wrapped around the trigger and squeezed, even if the feeling would last just for a moment. As the minutes went on, the need got worse. The tv slowly became background noise, and his focus was on the wall. The wall where a picture of Sherlock hang. A wall where all the memories could come flooding back.

He rose from his seat, and went over to the drawer. He pulled the pistol out, his hand around the grip, his finger loose on the trigger. He made his way back to the seat, and slowly, he lowered himself down. He paused, thought for a moment, before grabbing his phone, tapping in Greg's number and clicking "dial".

_"Lestrade speaking, what is it, John?"_

"Greg... I need you to come over... Please. Just stop these memories. Stop my hand. Please! Please! I don't want Sherlock to see this... Sherlock wouldn't want this..." His voice shook, tears streaming down his face.

_"John? What are you talking about?" _Greg asked, worried, before remembering John's license to hold a firearms. _"John, listen to me... Stay on the line. I'll be over in a moment, you just have to tell me everything that's going on, alright? Talk to me, John."_

"He's talking to me, Greg. He's telling me that he wants me with him, that he misses me." He sniffled. "I want him back, Greg! I miss him, I miss him so much..."

Greg had already gotten up and out of his house, his police siren on the top of his car, speeding to John's. _"Whatever you're thinking, is not the right thing to do. You're grieving. You haven't had time to do this, with everything that's been going on, and now it's piling up." _He paused to swerve through traffic, sounds of his horn going off could be heard. _"Go downstairs for me. Unlock your door so I don't have to scare Mrs H." _Greg listened to the shuffles on the other line, hearing John get up and out of his seat, opening the flat door, and going downstairs, unlocking the front door and returning upstairs.

"It's done. I-I... My hand is shaking. I need to... I need to do this. For Sherlock. He wants this, right? He wants me to be with him...?" John asks, his voice steadying. He fiddles with the pistol in his hand, the TV switching itself onto stand-by, the room darkened. "Greg? He wants me to be with him... Right?"

Greg shook his head. _"No, John. He doesn't want that. He wants you to be hap-"_

"If he wanted me happy, he wouldn't have killed himself!" John shouted down the phone, accidentally firing the gun, dropping his phone, the room falling silent.


	3. Chapter 3

"_John! John, please tell me you didn't!" _Greg shouts down the phone, the other line remaining silent until the disconnection pips sounded. He ran a hand down his face, and continued to make his way to the flat, phoning for back-up and an ambulance as he did. The sudden inset of guilt caused his stomach to take a turn, but he ignored it. There were more important things at hand right now.

The gun fire had startled John, and had woken up Mrs Hudson, the sounds of her footsteps quickly coming up the stairs. John had frozen in spot, the gun slipping from his hand, staring at the fresh bullet hole in the floor. He didn't even look over when Mrs Hudson entered the room and placed her hand on his shoulder, trying to wean him out of the room and to bed.

"John?" She shook his shoulder, trying to snap him out of it, having no success. "John, talk to me. You have to talk to me, dear."

The silence engulfed the room, until small sniffles came from the doctor, jerking away from Mrs Hudson. "Please leave, Mrs H… Go back to bed. I'll be fine." He requested, his voice shaky, but firm. "Just… Go. Greg will be here soon."

She listened to his request, moving her hand away, unable to help but worry about him. However, she obliged, and left the room, returning downstairs. A few moments later, police sirens could be heard getting closer, along the siren of an ambulance. The phone and the gun had remained where they were dropped; John now sat in Sherlock's chair, holding his scarf.

More rushed footsteps came up the stairs, and into the living room, stopping however, when they saw John. Greg glanced at the floor, at the bullet hole and the gun, then at the phone. "John…" He pauses and walks over to him. "What happened? I thought… I thought you had gone through with it. That's why I called the ambulance." He gestures towards the man and woman standing behind him.

John shakes his head, not much though, just enough to be acknowledged as a shake. "I didn't mean to… It just… It happened and I don't know why." He lifts his head to look at Greg, and the people surrounding him. "Please. All of you, but Greg, leave. I don't want to speak to anyone else." He shifts and tightens his grip on Sherlock's scarf, listening to the hushed mumbles and agreements. As the small huddle of people leave, he lifts his head and watches Greg sit across from him, removing his coat and draping it over the arm.

"You had me so worried, John. You know, as a cop, I have every right to take you to a cell and keep you there until you're no longer a danger to yourself, right?" He watches John nod. "But I can't do that. Not to you." He shifts in the chair, then stands and walks to the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a tray that had two cups of tea on. "What made you phone me? Of all the people you know, you called me. I mean, I'm not saying that I wouldn't have come anyway, but you have a lot of friends, John. Surely?" He lifts a cup and hands it to John, who, to his great surprise, accepts it.

"I haven't spoken to many people since Sherlock left. Molly seems to have disappeared… Mycroft lost contact with me. I don't know if it was the shock of losing his brother, or if he's doing something else… But I haven't seen him since."

"Well, you know how Mycroft is, John. We all do." Greg huffs slightly. "One moment, he'll pay attention to you all the time, but if something throws him off his course, he'll not talk to you for months on end. I want to say that I'm surprised that Sherlock ever managed to put up with that, but he was the same. They were both so similar in so many ways. Maybe that's why they never got on." Greg pauses, and looks at the doctor, who seemed to be drifting off in his seat. A small smile spread across Greg's face, and he took the cup from John's hands, lifting him. "Come on, John, bedtime."

Greg had stayed the night like promised, on the sofa. The very uncomfortable sofa. He didn't know how Sherlock, let alone John, could call this comfort. He was awoken rather abruptly, though, by a clattering in the kitchen, and music on the radio. He stretched, and sat up, turning to look at John. "How did you sleep, John? No night terrors or anything like that?"

John looks over. "Hmm? Oh! No nothing like that. Thank you for staying, Greg. Do you have work today? Because I'm fairly certain you need to be off." He smirks slightly.

Greg looks at his watch and stands. "Well, now that you mention it, I do need to be off. Remember to call me if you need anything, John. Don't hesitate."

John smiles slightly and waves as Greg leaves. He carries on his normal morning routine. Breakfast, an hour or so of tv, and then shower. However, something disrupted this. After breakfast, he heard a letter drop through the post box. It wasn't heavy, probably just a bill, then. He shrugged to himself and made his way downstairs, picking up the envelope, reading it.

_Want to play a game, Watson? –JM._

He looked at the writing, confused, almost scared. He then turned it over. It had the same red seal as the others did. He swallowed, and broke the seal, opening it. He pulled out the paper inside, and froze.

_I'm not dead, John. –Sherlock Holmes._


End file.
